


No Harsh Feelings

by handholding (hoesthetic)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fight Club Fusion, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 14:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14717544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoesthetic/pseuds/handholding
Summary: Who admires a man spitting blood on the cement floor of a warehouse with a red, blooming bruise on his cheek? Wonwoo, apparently.





	No Harsh Feelings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angelhyung](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelhyung/gifts).



> i havent seen fight club in like, three years. loosely based on it though. the doctor says the best cure to writers block is writing bullshit so im going off, i guess.

 

In retrospect, Wonwoo probably should have seen it coming.

He is very well aware of the rules of the Fight Club, or rather, the lack of them. And by the lack of them he means that it’s not about friendship or feelings—nothing personal,  _no harsh feelings._ That sort of a thing.

But when Junhui flashes a bright smile at him across the floor and something lurches in his stomach, Wonwoo sort of forgets it. Or rather gets distracted, also by the way how Junhui is only wearing old gym shorts, black fabric against his tanned skin that’s littered in old, faded bruises, and some scars as well.

Wonwoo isn’t really able to tell the scars and marks apart from so far away, but it’s just that he knows where they are pressed into his skin, like nude tattoos.

It’s not unusual for Wonwoo to fight a friend—he has fought Seungcheol who got him into the forsaken club in the first place—but it’s just that it’s Junhui. Junhui and his toned body and annoying laugh, bright smile and odd quirks.

But Junhui is soft, kind, and was willing to train with Wonwoo who was too scrawny and too skinny to fight properly when he had first joined, limbs more skin and bone rather than hard muscle.

That was over half a year ago and now while he is still skinny, there’s some muscle mass and definition beneath his dull skin. Winter always makes his skin seem a bit dull, almost faded, sort of like a ghost, even when it’s his favourite time of the year.

Wonwoo takes in a shaky breath, heart beating harshly underneath his sternum. It’s hitting against the bone uncomfortably, the usual excitement and nervousness that overcomes his body before every fight. It’s making the corners of his lips tug upwards.

Perhaps someone would call him odd, messed up or masochistic, and while all of those are valid points, Wonwoo thinks there’s something very humane about wanting to get violent and fight for the upper hand. Something raw and animalistic, the adrenaline and bliss, the blatant danger.

It’s loud. Low voices hollering, laughing and yelling, most of them cheering for Junhui since who doesn’t want to get their money’s worth? If Wonwoo was anyone other than himself, he’d probably put his bet on Junhui too, since even if Wonwoo can throw a mean punch or focus his whole weight on a kick, Junhui has been doing this for years and evidently, is fucking dangerous.

But it’s Junhui—soft, lovable Junhui—so he’ll go easy on Wonwoo. They’re great friends, sure, but more than that there’s something along of the lines of a teacher-student relationship. It’s weird to think it in that light but Wonwoo really can’t deny it. Nor the attraction he feels towards Junhui.

It’s gross, mostly. Then the rest is romantic and sexual, but mainly, absolutely disgusting. Who admires a man spitting blood on the cement floor of a warehouse with a red, blooming bruise on his cheek? Wonwoo, apparently.

And he’s still admiring him, even in a different setting, even when someone nudges his bare back for Wonwoo to walk forward because the fight is about to start, and the voices get louder. They echo in the warehouse. It’s too cold for him to be dressed only in shorts, navy blue from the 80’s, no shoes or shirt, but it’s the rules.

Wonwoo will play by the rules. (Never tell anyone about the Fight Club, is the most important one. Then there’s the one how every fight ends if the other man says  _‘stop’_ or passes out, or goes limp. Other rules are rather boring—only two guys fight, only one fight at time et cetera. Wonwoo knows them even in his sleep, but there’s nothing special about that.)

The floor is cold beneath his feet when he starts walking forward, heart fluttering with the anticipation. Junhui’s black hair is pushed back, sweaty from the warm-ups, a grin sporting on his lips. If Wonwoo is messed up for finding himself excited and smiling, then the other man is double the trouble.

The men surrounding them walk closer as well, a tighter ring than the one before. There’s a metre or two between Junhui and him. Wonwoo lets out a breathy laugh, rumbling deep from his chest, watching Junhui’s smile grow. His mouth open, Junhui drags his tongue against his lower lip and teeth. Animalistic, indeed.

They shake hands, clammy and firm. Junhui mouths a _good luck_ at him, squeezing his hand tightly. Wonwoo glances at their hands, intertwined. The contrast of their skin tones isn’t too shocking or even visible in the dim lighting of the warehouse. There’s no bruises on their knuckles, contrary to the aesthetic cliché, because bruised knuckles heal in a week but fighting with them is painful, inconvenient, and an immediate loss.

Now, by this point, Wonwoo is almost convinced Junhui will throw a punch or two, and it’ll be rather playful, more than about winning or losing. But maybe he’s getting old, or his head has taken too many hits and he’s just losing it, or he’s an utter fool for Junhui, because that’s not what happens.

Someone announces that the fight is starting, and Junhui dives in, and the pain in his jaw is white.

It’s white because the sting is immediate, snap of the fingers, like a flash in photography. A sudden soar of light. Wonwoo’s neck bends backwards, a confused  _what the fuck_ passing through his mind before the instincts kick in, and he manages to crouch down to avoid the next hit.

When Wonwoo fights, he doesn’t have time to think. That’s freeing about it, very liberating, but now it’s the Devil in disguise, coming back to him to bite him in his ass. It distracts him, dizzying from either the feeling or the punch he got in his lower face.

Wonwoo manages to swing his leg to come in contact with Junhui’s kneecaps, and while his knees buckle a bit, he keeps his composure, or something like that. Wonwoo judges it by how quickly it’s him who his bending forward, crouching, because  _fuck,_ his stomach is on fire. Or is it his ribs? He can’t tell.

The background noise is too clear and defined for his usual fights, he can tell apart the words too easily, and his heartbeat is like a drum hammering in his ears. Wonwoo stumbles backwards, mentally screams at himself to keep it together and to man up, because it’s about testosterone levels and being the alpha male, of course.

It works, to some degree. Wonwoo has learnt to numb the aching in his body, especially with the help of adrenaline and rush. It’s like a dance, don’t think, just move, just fight like his life depends on it. Even when in reality Wonwoo knows no one dies in these fights, it’s a thrilling thought.

It’s thrilling when his knuckles press harshly against Junhui’s stomach, repeatedly, at least two times, before the other man shoves him off with a grunt.

Punches to the face aren’t effective on making someone lose, per se, since it’s bone colliding against bone and not muscle, but it’s Junhui’s favourite. Wonwoo can taste blood in his mouth, and he isn’t sure if his nose is bleeding or if he bit on his tongue, or perhaps it’s a split lip? He can’t fucking concentrate.

Junhui looks vivid through the haze of the moment. Objectively, Wonwoo thinks he looks the best like this, but again, it’s not the time for that.

The next thing he realizes is that his ass hits the ground, and Wonwoo barely has any time to lift up his arms to block another punch to his face when Junhui hovers over him. He lifts his leg up, too, knee almost—only almost—hitting Junhui in the ribs.

After that, it’s a downfall. Junhui manages to hit his face again, the back of Wonwoo’s head rams against the cement, and the crowd goes fucking wild. He doesn’t stop fighting back though, elbow striking Junhui to his chest, although it’s a bit weak, it still apparently distracts him enough for Wonwoo to push him off him.

Fuck friends. No harsh feelings, fuck it. Fuck this.

It was his plan, or whatever comes to the closest to a plan in a situation like this, to roll over and get on top of Junhui, but he doesn’t manage to quite do that. Even though Wonwoo is quick to sit up, the other man is back pushing him down.

Wonwoo can’t count the punches. Everything is dizzy. Everything hurts. He lifts his arm to push his palm against Junhui’s jawbone, but it’s way too weak. Wonwoo spits blood, and the other one is close enough for it to land on his cheek.

“Fuck you,” Wonwoo mumbles, copper tasting in his mouth, breaking the quiet of their fight.

“I wish,” Junhui says, brokenly as well, and that is the last thing Wonwoo can make out before he more or less, blacks out.

  
  
  


 

Wonwoo comes back to it, slowly. The first thing he hears is quiet humming, distant, muffled, like it’s music bleeding through someone else’s headphones. But with every tune, it morphs into something clearer and more vivid.

Wonwoo groans, opening his eyes with great effort. The light above him is the first thing he registers with his blurry gaze, flickering and ugly yellow. Everything is disoriented, and it doesn’t really take that much time for him to realize that this is the aftermath of being knocked out in a fight. It’s not anything he hasn’t felt before.

And now, he feels it. He really feels it. The pain crashes over him in waves, throbbing limbs, aching head, mouth sort of numb, another pained groan from his lips, this time louder, because the humming stops.

Wonwoo blinks a few times before he makes effort to look around. He’s laying in a bed that’s not his, judging by how awfully soft it is.

“You’re awake,” it’s Junhui’s voice, soft around the edges. Wonwoo responds with another illegible noise.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. He feels fucking awful, not only from the bruises and whatever is left on his body from the fight, but the grogginess from waking up and well, the bitter taste of disappointment.

It comes back to Wonwoo fairly easily, how their fight was easily  _the worst_. Or rather how he had been the worst, getting all distracted. It’s embarrassing.

“How are you feeling?” Junhui asks, and Wonwoo opens his eyes to glare at him, if not a bit too gently for it to be anything threatening.

It’s delightful to see that Junhui seems quite roughed up as well. Sort of comforting, even if it doesn’t remove the acid bitterness in his mouth.

“Peachy,” Wonwoo says, carefully pushing himself to a sitting position on the bed—Junhui’s bed, “How long was I out?”

He recognizes Junhui’s room easily, the gray walls and tall roof. There’s clothes piled in the corner of it, mostly monochrome with some shades of red and muted green.

“A few hours,” Junhui tells him, shrugging his shoulders. Again, comforting to see the stiffness of the movement. Wonwoo raises his brows.

“Wow,” he sighs, before asking another question, “Why am I here?”

Junhui rolls his eyes before giving him a small smile, as if it were the most obvious question in the whole world.

“Someone’s gotta patch you up. Seungcheol helped to carry you here.”

“Right,” Wonwoo says, nodding slowly. It makes him grimace, a sharp pain flashing through him.

“You fucking wrecked me,” he lets out a disbelieving laugh, almost dumbfoundead. Wonwoo should have seen it coming, really. He feels stupid, sort of small, weak and clammy from the dried down sweat.

“What did you expect?” Junhui laughs kind of dryly, getting up from his chair. Wonwoo cocks his brow, leaning his chest against his now propped up knees. Even with his body aching, it feels dumb and too vulnerable to just lay there.

“Dunno. Where are you going?” Wonwoo asks. It feels like so much effort to even speak, move his aching jaw and form words.

“Getting you an ice pack,” Junhui informs him with a lazy peace sign over his shoulder, walking out of the door. Wonwoo lets out a sigh.

Junhui is funny, charismatic and handsome, but also obnoxious, weird and uncomfortably awkward. He is strong and knows how to make it hurt, but he’s also caring and gentle. Wonwoo hates it, sort of.

He remembers it with the same sourness.

“Did you tell me you wanna fuck me or am I tripping?” Wonwoo blurts out with furrowed brows, staring at the gray wall, when Junhui returns to the room. He moves his gaze at him, spotting the water bottle and ice pack in his hands.

Junhui just looks at him for a brief moment of silence.

“Did I?” he asks, nonchalant. Wonwoo swallows. Everything hurts. What the fuck.

“Oh my God,” he mumbles, letting himself drop on his back on the mattress. It’s a mistake because the contact makes him wince.

“Just give me the ice pack,” Wonwoo says when Junhui doesn’t carry out the subject. When the other one drops it in his hands, he isn’t quite sure where to press it first. Wonwoo ends up with it against his ribs though.

“My jaw fucking hurts,” he complains, just because the silence feels oddly uncomfortable, like an itch on his skin, “Are you an actual sadist or what’s up with that.”

Junhui lets out an unattractive snort, sitting down on the edge of the bed. If it were a cheesy movie, or a bad porn, Junhui would ask if he wants him to kiss it better, and Wonwoo would want it, and then he’d kiss it. If it were that bad porn, he’d continue kissing his jaw, then his lips, then his chest, and then Wonwoo would cry because it hurts, but it’s good.

The title would be something like Two Asian Bad Boys Sadomasochism Amateur. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, but neither do Wonwoo’s thoughts. He blames the hits to his head. He’s so tired.

“So, about fucking you…” Junhui starts again, offering him the water bottle, a mischievous grin on his lips. Wonwoo looks up at him, tired but still such sharp eyes meeting his gaze. He refuses to look away. Junhui has a scar underneath his lip, making it sort of droopy. Maybe if it were absolutely anyone else, Wonwoo would find it a bit off-putting but it almost suits Junhui, in a way he can’t quite describe.

“About fucking me,” Wonwoo repeats. His lips almost tug upwards—it’s ridiculous. All of this is ridiculous.

“I’d be down,” Junhui finishes lamely. Wonwoo blinks.

It’s not that he’d be surprised to find out that the other one is attracted to him, or whatever it is, but it’s just laughable, quite frankly, the way Junhui is presenting it. It’s supposed to be a joke, so Wonwoo laughs.

“Can I kiss you?” Junhui asks instead of waiting for Wonwoo respond anything else.

Wonwoo blinks slowly. Maybe if he were someone with no brain to mouth filter, and despite his tiredness, he does have one, he’d blurt out  _wait, what?_ But he just blinks, looking up from where he is laying down.

“Yeah,” he says. He doesn’t really need to think an answer for it, even if his stomach tightens, the familiar lurch of butterflies. Maybe moths.

With that, Junhui leans down, smiling shortly before kissing him.

It’s wet, nothing innocent or pure, even for a first kiss. A lot of tongue, teeth knocking, but it’s oddly fitting.

And it hurts, too, with Wonwoo’s jaw sore, and yeah, Junhui’s saliva tastes better in his mouth than blood.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading!! kudos & comments are highly appreciated. here's my [twitter](https://twitter.com/minsgsol) if u wanna chat about svt or whatever, lets be friends!!!!


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